Loose Ends
by Swellison
Summary: A newspaper article about a missing skier sends Sam and Dean scurrying to the site of one of Dean's earlier solo hunts. Happy Sammy's Birthday;-)
1. Chapter 1

Loose Ends

A/N: Happy Sammy's Birthday! This story was originally published in Rooftop Confessions #6.

by Swellison

Sam Winchester rolled his shoulders, substituting that bit of activity for moving his legs, tucked under—honestly it felt more like into—the Impala's passenger side dashboard. At times like this he missed Jess's bright blue PT Cruiser, or at least the Cruiser's bucket seats that allowed him to push his seat back to practically the backseat and blissfully stretch his legs. Thoughts of the Cruiser inevitably led to Jess... Sam thumped his head against the passenger window, knocking his mindset back to the present.

He stared at the highway in front, spotlighted by the Impala's headlights as the car rolled along I-79. Sam caught the wording on a small green destination sign, "Erie 21 mi" as they advanced northward. Wisconsin had been unseasonably warm—Dean would've said freakishly warm. _Did Peter's supernatural activities at the lake have something to do with that?_ Pennsylvania was firmly settled into early December winter, the highway cleared and drivable, the ground hidden beneath a half-foot of snow. He glanced from the white-covered roadside shoulder to Dean, in his familiar position behind the wheel, attention seemingly absorbed by his driving. Sam knew that if he coughed or sneezed, Dean's head would immediately swivel in his direction and he'd hear, "Are you all right, Sammy?" But Sam wasn't the one who'd drowned out Dean's cassette tapes with the frequent hacking of an oncoming cold; that had been Dean. Not that his stoic brother would admit to being sick, especially nothing as girly as a cold.

True, Sam and Dean had both dived into chilly Lake Manitoc to save Lucas, and they'd emerged equally drenched. After the dramatic rescue, Dean had focused his attention on Lucas and Sam, making sure they'd been wrapped in blankets and sipping hot cocoa before he'd gratefully accepted a blanket for himself from Andrea. Sam had gone along with Dean's fussing, used to his big brother's over-protectiveness. In hindsight, he should've paid more attention to Dean, insisted that Dean look after himself, too. _Just Dean being Dean_.

But Dean had surprised Sam during their just-completed hunt in Wisconsin. His brother's quick and firm two-way attachment to Lucas was a case in point. Sure, Sam could see Lucas glomming onto Dean; he remembered how safe it felt being looked after by the pint-sized version of his big brother, let alone the adult. Dean must have appeared downright awesome to a scared kid like Lucas. And Dean had genuinely liked Lucas, too, even confessing to Lucas things he'd never told Sam about Mom. Sam recalled standing stock-still in the doorway to Lucas' bedroom, listening to Dean's earnest words.

"Hey, when I was your age, I saw something really bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see, my mom, I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day, and I do my best to be brave. And maybe your dad wants you to be brave, too."

Dean's words had shocked Sam, because until then, he'd never even considered the idea that Dean worked at being brave; being brave was just part of the package that was his big brother. Dean was a doer, a fixer, who embraced Yoda's philosophy: "There is no try. DO—or do not." Part of that was due to their upbringing.

_"Dean, clean my guns, I didn't have time to last night."_

_"Yes, sir, right away."_

_"Drop and give me twenty!"_

_"Yes, sir!"_

_"I want you to go over sidekicks and blocking with Sammy, he's not doing it right. You've got plenty of time to practice before dinner."_

_"Yes, sir. I'll go get him."_

_"Dean, I'll be back on Tuesday. Look after Sammy and no breaking curfew, you hear me?"_

_"Yes, sir. Of course I will, Dad. Do you have food for the road?"_

When he was younger, Sam had thought Dean was invincible, a superhero, almost. Then, sometime in his early teens—maybe after Sam had faced down Dirk the Jerk at Truman High—he realized that Dean wasn't really all that different from himself. They lived a freakish, lonely life. Trouble was, at fourteen Sam was beginning to detest that life, while Dean loved it; soaked it up like a sponge. Or at least he'd always given Sam that impression. . .But maybe that was a false impression and he didn't know Dean as well as he thought . . .

Sam was suddenly acutely aware of the four years he'd spent away from Dean, realizing that in the intervening years while he'd grown from a teenager to a man, Dean had changed, too. The thought was mildly unsettling, because Dean had been the one constant in Sam's upside-down and sideways life.

Dean coughed, breaking into Sam's thoughts. His coughs and sneezes had started out sounding muffled, but they had begun bursting out more and more frequently as the hours accumulated.

Sam knew he couldn't get Dean to take any cough medicine while he was driving, even the non-drowsy stuff would be a no-go. Therefore, he had to get Dean out from behind the wheel. "What say we stop in Erie?"

Dean looked him up and down. "You tired, Sammy?"

"A little. It's been a long day."

"Wuss." Dean rolled his eyes, peering at his wristwatch. "It's not even ten. The night is still young."

"You've been driving all day, how much farther are you planning on going? We don't even have a firm destination, at the moment."

"Exactly, so why waste the money on a motel?"

"Wait a minute, you're not thinking of driving straight through the night?" Sam tossed Dean an incredulous glare.

"Why not?"

"For one thing, it sure won't help your cold—"

"I'm not sick!" Dean interrupted, loudly.

"And if you're really worried about money, we should stop someplace, scope out a bar and you can play poker."

Dean swiveled in his seat to meet Sam's eyes directly. "Now I know you're up to something, you never encourage my fundraising activities. What's going on, bro?"

"Nothing, I'm just a bit cramped here. I'm not used to—" Sam halted abruptly, but they both knew what he was going to say: _"I'm not used to this, any more."_ From there, Sam found himself reflecting on why he was back on the road, his thoughts pinwheeling once again to Jess and the huge gaping hole in his heart that had previously been filled with her presence, smiles, laughter, teasing, wisdom, and love...

Abruptly, Dean sneezed. "We'll get a room at the next exit," he said quietly.

The Motel 6 off of I-79 was sparsely furnished, but clean. The décor consisted of off-white walls and blown-up old photographs of Erie's famous canals hung over each of the two double beds. The bedspreads were an unimaginative shade of beige that matched the motel's bathroom.

Sam shifted in the room's rickety straight back chair, trying to get comfortable while hunched over the laptop at the table. Dean was stretched out on the bed closest to the door, semi-watching the television, remote clutched in his hands. Dean had switched channels twice since reluctantly bedding down about twenty minutes earlier, grumbling that he could've kept on driving for another two, three hours, easy.

Sam snorted. _Does__he really thing I didn't notice him wincing and squirming behind the wheel as the afternoon progressed_? _Seriously, I'd have to be deaf to miss hearing that hacking cough—that's a helluva cold he's got._ _Not totally unexpected after a little bout of winter lake-diving._

Not to mention Dean was probably still feeling the effects of the wendigo's attack, because no one bounced back overnight from almost being wendigo chow. _How out of practice does Dean think I am, anyway?_ Sure, he'd only been back hunting since he'd left Palo Alto and...Sam's anger collapsed, dipping towards the barely contained grief that could pop up at a single thought of California or Jess or home...

Shaking his head to clear it, Sam turned his attention to his brother. Words from the television sounded loud enough for him to identify Dean's TV fare as a JAG rerun. Kind of surprising, that Dean would be watching that legal drama. On the other hand, maybe not. Sam could see where the military emphasis on structure and doing things by the book would appeal to his brother. Besides, most episodes had a Marine in them. Sam scowled. _Further evidence of Dad's long arm reaching out and influencing Dean's choices, even in such minutiae as television programs._

Sam refocused on the laptop, glancing at his home page's tagged mailbox. He clicked on the mail icon and stared at four new messages, all from friends at Stanford. He shot Dean a glance from beneath his lanky bangs, checking. He saw Dean fiddle with the remote, muting the television.

"Researchin' this late at night?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't want to mention his friends' emails and subject himself to Dean's "the hunting life is a lonely life" spiel. "Looking for traces of Dad." The lie sprang easily to his lips. _Once a Winchester..._

Dean sighed. "You know Dad, Sammy. He's a regular Houdini when he doesn't wanna be found. Not by whatever's chasing him—and not by us, either."

"Why not? Why can't he just pick up a freakin' phone and call us, tell us where he is like any normal human being would?" Sam completely forgot that he'd brought up the subject of looking for Dad as a diversion.

"He's a Winchester." Sam heard Dean's unspoken preface: _"He's not normal."_ Dean then stuck up for Dad, as usual. "He's got his reasons, Sammy."

"Don't give me that 'need to know' crap," Sam snapped. "I've had it—"

Dean's harsh hacking cut him off. He sounded like he was coughing up a lung.

Sam was suddenly thrust back into yesterday, and the cold water of Lake Manitoc. He recalled his desperate effort, searching underwater as long as he could before coming up for air, empty-handed. He remembered staring bleakly at the still water surrounding him for several agonizing seconds before Dean resurfaced, gasping, with Lucas grasped tightly to his chest. Sam snapped back to the present. He and his big brother were settled into a third-class motel room, on the hunt again, on the road again. All he really wanted to do was to get Dean to fall asleep, let the healing process begin. Medication would certainly help that along.

Sam rose from the table and stepped into the bathroom. He emerged shortly, crossing over to Dean, handing him two cold capsules and a glass of water. "Take this—it'll help your cold."

"I'm not sick," Dean protested automatically.

Sam glared until Dean reluctantly swallowed the pills and drank some water. Then he took the remote from Dean's hand and turned off the television.

"Hey, I was watching that!" Dean pouted, sounding a dozen years younger than his present age.

"It's a rerun, Dean. I'm sure you've seen it before. Now, get some sleep and you'll feel better in the morning."

"I've forgotten what a nag you are, Samantha," Dean grumbled into his pillow as he settled deeper under the covers.

"Night, Dean." When he heard Dean's labored breathing even out into sleep, he quietly resumed his seat, bringing the laptop out of hibernation. He read the first email and started to reply. _"Hi Becky, I'm on a road trip with my brother..."_

*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*

Dean blinked awake, automatically scanning the motel room for anything amiss. His reconnoitering ended with the alarm clock, the LCD displaying 7:13. Early for him but late for—he glanced past the clock, saw Sam slouched on the other bed, back against the headboard, open laptop resting on the blanket covering his chest. Dean rose quietly and bent over Sam, gently removing the laptop. He inadvertently pressed a key while holding the computer, activating its monitor. Sam had been composing an email when he fell asleep. A cursory glance showed several instances of Jess's name. Dean quit skimming the message, obviously meant for one of Sam's Stanford buddies. Sam never talked to him about Jessica—even when they'd been in Jericho, on what was supposed to have been a weekend expedition to find Dad, Sam had kept the conversation away from his life at school.

Dean set the laptop at the foot of his own bed and then turned back to Sam. At least the kid was under the covers, not on top of them, although crashing in front of the computer was not the best way for Sammy to catch his zzz's. Removing the second pillow that was propping Sam up, Dean gently pulled back the covers and nudged his little brother into lying flat on the bed, Sam not waking up past a murmured sigh as he was resituated.

Since he was awake, Dean walked into the bathroom, took care of business and swallowed a couple of cold capsules—no need for Sammy to know about that—then returned to his own bed. Sam's rest was usually curtailed by nightmares and Dean was determined to let Sam sleep as long as possible, already writing off today as a stay-in-the-motel day. Unwilling to risk waking Sam up by watching TV or any other activity, Dean crept back to bed and fell quickly asleep. Long ago, he had learned that stockpiling sleep was part of a hunter's life.

"NOOOO!" Sam's scream woke Dean some time later.

Dean sprang out of bed. "Sam!"

Sam writhed on his back on the bed, kicking legs exposing his still-clothed body as the covers went flying. "Jess!"

"Sam." Dean stood in the gap between their beds, noting that Sam's eyes were closed as he reached towards his brother, repeating, "Sam!"

"No, no!" Sam pushed off the bed, his flailing arms first colliding with Dean, then wrapping around him. Sam strained against Dean, head tilted towards the ceiling. "No! Jess! No!"

Dean realized with sickening certainty what Sam's nightmare was about; they were unwittingly reenacting the tail end of it. He firmly extricated himself from Sam's grasp and forcefully pushed him down flat on the bed.

"Jess! No!"

Dean really didn't want to slap Sam, but he had to break through his brother's nightmare, now. Plan B. He grabbed Sam's upper arm and pinched, hard.

"Owww!" Sam's yelp was loud, but it wasn't the desperate screaming it had been seconds ago. Dean watched as Sam's eyes popped open, surprised. Sam rubbed his arm and Dean could tell hewas back in the here-and-now when he growled, "Did you just pinch me?"

"I had to—" Dean started to say, when Sam reached out and swatted him.

"Jerk."

Dean swallowed his automatic 'bitch', not allowing himself to be sidetracked. He sat on the edge of Sam's bed as Sam pulled himself into a sitting position. "You were having a nightmare. I woke up and you were screaming 'No!' and 'Jess!' I couldn't wake you up until I pinched you."

"Oh." Sam's eyes darted sideways. " Sorry about that," he mumbled.

"You don't have to apologize, bro." Dean sighed. "It's just—you've been having these nightmares for a while now, ever since . . . Don't ya think it's time you talked about it?"

"I—I can't, Dean." Sam swallowed. "Not yet."

"Okay, but no more staying up all night to avoid nightmares—"

"I wasn't—"

Dean cut off Sam's words. "If you wanna wear yourself out so you fall into bed and don't dream, I've got just the ticket: training."

"Training?" Sam echoed, face incredulous.

"Yeah. We can start today, an easy, brisk five-mile run down the highway. You gotta admit you're a little rusty, Sammy."

"Rusty? I'll give you rusty." Sam unexpectedly launched himself towards Dean, long arms encircling Dean's torso as he twisted and yanked them both sideways towards the other, unoccupied side of his double bed. Dean felt Sam's hands let go of his tee shirt as he continued to roll past the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with a thud.

He jumped to his feet. "Sam—"

Sam tumbled across his bed and rose fluidly to his feet, facing Dean from the other side of the bed. "You ready for round two?" he challenged.

"Easy, Tiger. Maybe I was a little hasty with that rusty comment," Dean placated, taking two steps away from the bed. "I'm gonna grab a quick shower and then go out and get us some breakfa—" his eyes darted to the clock –"lunch."

*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*


	2. Chapter 2

Loose Ends - ch 2

by Swellison

Sam showered and dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and shirt. It was his last clean pair of jeans—not to mention underwear. He doubted that any of the clothes in Dean's duffel bag could pass the sniff test, either. Since they appeared to be staying here for the day, maybe he could volunteer to do the laundry. That would give Dean some time for his "fundraising" as Sam euphemistically referred to his brother's pool hustling activities. Hefigured hekind of owed Dean something for putting up with his nightmares.

Retrieving the laptop from Dean's bed, Sam set it on down on the tabletop and dropped into the straight back chair, sighing as it creaked under his weight. For a moment, he missed the four-star motel that he and Jess had stayed at, on that ski trip to Lake Tahoe. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Sam refreshed the screen and started typing; finishing the email he'd been composing when he'd dozed off last night.

As he closed the laptop's lid, he caught sight of the skull and bones band decal on the center of it, the foreign decoration a reminder that this was Dean's computer, not his. His own laptop had burned in the fire, along with almost everything else he'd owned . . . He needed a diversion, and fast. Sam reopened the laptop; he should familiarize himself with the online resources that Dean had set up already. He knew that Dean would be only too happy to cede the online researching to him, so he poked around in Dean's emails—he had to test his hacking skills on something, although figuring out Dean's password hardly qualified as hacking. Sam was startled to discover that Dean—whose inbox was spartan, leaving scant traces of his online activities—had kept every single one of Sam's emails from Stanford. Not that there'd been that many. Except for Sam's birthday, Dean had never sent an unsolicited email to Sam; he'd merely replied to Sam's emails. Their cyber connection had dried up completely when Sam had stopped emailing his older brother a couple of years back.

_"If I'd a called, would you have picked up?"_

No. Sam was honest enough to admit that. Dean would've left a message, though, and then contacted him on another phone, with an unknown number. And Sam would have answered, would've talked to him, heard him out. And things would've ended up the same. . . Probably. Maybe.

Maybe not?

_Damn,_ Sam thought. _Does every single waking thought lead back to that night? Aren't the nightmares bad enough?_ No wonder Dean had thought he was a powder keg back at Black Ridge. The laptop beeped a 'you've got mail' message and Sam hastily logged out of Dean's email account. He started perusing Dean's bookmarks, still at it when the door opened and Dean walked in, newspaper tucked under his arm and gloved hands carrying a McDonald's bag and a cardboard carrier with two drinks in it.

Dean dropped the food and newspaper on the table, slipping out of his leather jacket and draping it over the opposite chair as Sam shoved the laptop out of the way. Dean opened the bag and hauled out a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, a Big Mac and an extra-large order of French fries. He placed the wrapped packages in front of the chair with his jacket on it, then pushed the bag over to Sam.

Sam delved into the bag, emerging with a plastic case holding a Premium Grilled Chickenn Salad. He smiled slightly, imagining Dean's face as he ordered the girly salad, certain it was something Dean wouldn't be caught dead eating. But Dean had ordered it for him, knowing the salad was something that would tempt Sam's hit-or-miss appetite. _He knows me so well, _Sam thought, opening and pouring the reduced calorie ranch dressing packet over his salad. He found the wrapped plastic ware, ripped it open, grabbed the fork and started eating. Glancing across the table, he saw that Dean was half-finished with the Big Mac and had made substantial inroads on the fries. Sam swiped a couple of ketchup-glopped fries, trying to decide if Dean was grinning at his petty larceny; it was hard to tell with Dean's mouth currently stuffed with Big Mac.

They ate the rest of the meal in silence, quickly consuming their entrees and splitting Dean's fries. Dean bussed his side of the table by crushing the napkins and paper wraps into paper balls and making a three-point-shot into the wastebasket on the other side of the room.

"Show off," Sam grumbled as Dean placed the newspaper in his newly cleared spot, grabbed the obituary section and started reading the _Erie Times-News_.

A few minutes later, Dean lowered the paper and reached for his Coke. "Nothing here."

Sam drew the laptop back in front of his seat and tsked. "You need to expand your horizons, Dean—or at least your search parameters. Most newspapers have an online version, too, y'know—if they wanna stay in business very long." Several minutes later, he shook his head. "Nothing promising in the entire state of Pennsylvania... I'll try a wider scope, how about New England?"

"Whatever floats your boat."

Sam's hands flew over the keyboard, then he started reading. "Okay, we've got two men found mauled by the side of the road in Connecticut, a missing skier in New Hampshire, a sailboat disappeared in calm waters off the coast of Maine—"

"Wait a minute, what was that about a skier in New Hampshire?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, he thought that the vanishing sailboat sounded a lot more interesting, but he pulled up more information on the New Hampshire incident. "Says here a cross-country skier went missing about...ah, three days ago from the Appalachian Trail, in Franconia Notch State Park."

"Shit! We need to get to Franconia, Sam. Think it's about a day's drive from here."

"Why?"

Dean fiddled with the lid of his paper drink cup. "Because I've hunted there before."

"Tell me about it," Sam said. Considering what he could add to make Dean open up, he remembered Dean's words from Black Ridge. "I wanna know what we're getting into."

"It was two years ago, in the spring..."

*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*

May 2003

Dean topped off the Impala's tank, screwed the lid back on her gas tank and then flipped the KAZ 2Y5 license plate back in place. He set the pump hose in its slot and sauntered into the gas station's convenience store to pay. He detoured through the candy and snack aisle, grabbing a large bag of peanut M&Ms, a bag of Munchos and a few assorted power bars. Walking past the beverage coolers along the back wall, he snagged a six-pack of beer, then made his way to the cashier's counter. A biker chick and an old man were in line ahead of him. Dean did a routine scan of the joint, noticing where the fish-eye mirrors were placed, and the camera feeds from the pumps. As he set his items on the countertop, he saw the daily calendar on its stand, angled for check writers' ease: May 2, 2003. Sammy's birthday. _Not that it mattered..._

"Sir...sir! Is that all?" The convenience clerk's accented voice reached through his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"Didn't you get some gas, too?" the clerk prodded.

"Oh, yeah, um...pump number three – filled her up." Dean fished a credit card out of his pocket, which the clerk took and slid over the reader.

"Cash back?"

"Forty."

"Sign here." The clerk indicated an electronic signature pad while he scooped Dean's food into a small plastic bag. He handed Dean two twenties, his card and a receipt. "Have a nice day," he said perfunctorily as Dean took the bag and walked towards the door.

Returning to the Impala, Dean got into the driver's seat and dropped the bag of goodies on the passenger side foot well, within easy reach. Then he moved the car from in front of the pumps to a vacant slot by the convenience store. He killed the engine and reached for his cell phone, hitting speed dial.

"Dad, hi. Just lettin' ya know I finished the job."

_"Any problems?"_

Dad had been letting Dean take point on the last few hunts, acting as backup only if needed, gradually acclimating Dean to hunting solo. This was Dean's second solo hunt, the first one had been a ghost in New York, a little less than a month ago. "No sir. One granny ghost salted and burned. Piece of cake."

_"Dean, hunting's no 'piece of cake.' How many times—"_

"Yes, sir, I know there's no such thing as an easy hunt; all hunts are dangerous." Dean rolled his eyes, glad that the man couldn't see his non-verbal reaction to hearing that constant reminder AGAIN. He quickly changed the topic. "Where do you want to meet up?"

_"I'm in the middle of something here. And I want you to stick around town, make sure that ghost is really gone."_

Dean tried to ignore the voice in his head saying Dad was making excuses, avoiding him. "Yes, sir, I can hang around Podunk for a few days, make sure everything's quiet at the cemetery now."

_"Podunk?" _

His father didn't sound amused. "Ah, did I say Podunk? I meant Lincoln, sir. Lincoln, New Hampshire. So, where d'you want to meet, after I've cleared Lincoln?"

_"Just stay put, I'll call you when I've wrapped things up here."_

"Yes, sir, I'll wait for your next call. Bye, Dad."

_"Bye, Dean. Be careful."_

"Yes, sir." Dean flipped his cell phone closed. Fan-freakin'-tastic. On top of the in-your-face reminder that today was Sammy's birthday, he was on his own for a few days. He frowned slightly, contemplating his options since hanging out in Lincoln didn't really appeal to him. Lincoln was a small town—a very small town, population under 1,500, which meant strangers tended to stick out. Since he was trying to blend in—just absorb the local gossip, make sure things had quieted down on the supernatural side—he couldn't hustle pool here, too flashy. On the other hand, New Hampshire was full of small towns like Lincoln, so he could drive to the next Podunk town, plant himself in the local bar, hustle pool and still keep an ear out for any fallout from the Lincoln hunt. That sounded like a plan.

tbc

Thanks for reading! And a belated Happy Sammy's Birthday to everyone;-) Sammy asked me to remind you that reviews make nice pressies, lol.


	3. Chapter 3

Loose Ends – Part 3

by Swellison

Pocketing his cell, Dean started the Impala, heading for I-93 and Podunk's nearest neighboring town. After twenty minutes of driving through the scenic White Mountains, Dean found the next town over, Franconia. It came with a bonus: Franconia Notch State Park. _Whatthehell,_ Dean thought, pulling into the exit for the state park. He had the whole day to kill. _Do something normal and play tourist for a day—surely Sammy'd approve of that. _

Ten minutes later, Dean had parked, purchased a ticket, picked up the freebie Flume Gorge brochure, and joined a self-guided group of about twenty tourists, mostly families with a smattering of retirees. "Now Ethan, you keep an eye on Danny," a woman's voice instructed as they started the walk, catching Dean's attention. "Danny, you hold onto your big brother's hand, especially on any stair steps." Dean saw a jean-clad young woman stooping down to talk to her two youngsters.

"Yes, Mom."

"Yes, Mommy."

Dean casually positioned himself at the end of the loose group of tourists, behind the woman and her two tow-headed sons. He judged their ages as around seven and ten and half-smiled, remembering how much trouble seven-year-old Sammy could accidentally stir up. The group walked down a broad dirt path. Wooden planks replaced the dirt path as the trail reached the actual Flume Gorge. The planked path hugged the granite cliffs on one side, with a guardrail between the path and the rushing water of the flume. The guardrail was simple and natural, two long rows of natural wood boards, one at the top serving as a railing and one in the middle of the rail, pierced by thin iron posts every ten feet or so. The views of waterfalls, boulders and other natural wonders were awesome, but the protective railing was too tall for Danny to see over, so the boys stopped frequently, crouching down to get an unobstructed view of the natural wonders. The first time the boys halted they were half-way up a set of twenty stairs. Their mom stopped too, taking a few snapshots and motioning for Dean to go around them on the narrow stairway.

"That's okay, I'm not in any hurry," Dean smiled, raising his voice to be heard over the constant pounding of the so-close-you-could-almost-touch-it rushing waters of the flume. When Danny had his fill of the view, they all resumed their trek up the stairway. As the trail leveled out again, the boys switched over to the other side of the path, eager hands exploring the texture of the exposed granite on the inside of the path, touching wet, dry and occasionally moss-covered parts of the cliffside.

The first picturesque covered bridge was easily crossed. They were high enough above the gorge that the water didn't drown out conversation, and Dean overheard Danny asking his older brother, "But why'd they paint it _pink_?" A bit later, Danny balked at the second covered bridge, a simpler, much less substantial looking unpainted all-wooden bridge. "I'm not walkin' in _that_. It's scary."

"Mom, take Danny's other hand," Ethan said, grasping Danny's left hand. "Danny, stay in the middle and you'll be fine."

"We won't let anything happen to you." Danny's mom reached for his hand and the trio stepped towards the Sentinel Pine Bridge. Danny set the pace, slowly walking three abreast through the slightly swaying bridge, Dean trailing a few steps behind. As Dean emerged from the bridge, he saw Ethan turn the little family around to look back at the covered bridge.

"You did it, bro." He heard Ethan say.

"I'm proud of you, Danny." His mom released Danny's hand. "You crossed the Sentinel Pine Bridge, even though you didn't want to."

"What's a sentinel, Mommy?"

"I read about it in the brochure." The mother bent down closer to Danny. "Look underneath the bridge, see that long, thick log?"

"Yep."

Dean found himself pausing to check out the bridge's underside, too.

"That's part of the trunk of a really huge, old pine tree that used to stand not too far from here. The tree was one of the tallest pines in the state, it was almost 175 feet high and the trunk was sixteen feet around. Imagine, if you and Ethan and I held hands and tried to make a circle completely around the tree, we couldn't do it. The Sentinel Pine was bigger around than that. It stood watch over the area until the Great Hurricane of 1938 uprooted it and knocked it down.

"You see Danny, a sentinel keeps watch over an area, protecting it."

"Kinda like Mommy and I keep an eye on you," Ethan added.

Danny's mom rose to her feet. "After the storm, the park used about seventy feet of the Sentinel Pine's trunk to create this covered bridge, spanning the gap in the trail. That's why there's a 1939 carved into the bridge on the front side, it's the year the bridge was made."

"Wow, that's _ancient_," Ethan commented as they resumed walking on the trail.

"What's a hurricane?" Danny asked.

As the kid's mother started to explain, Dean thought with a pang about Sammy, ceaselessly pestering him with questions about everything. _Pain in the ass little brothers._

The rest of the hike was full of pauses for the boys to "ooh" and "ahhh" over more scenic highlights of the path. They arrived back at the visitor's parking lot.

"Did you like the tour, boys?"

"It was awesome, Mom," Ethan answered first.

"Yeah, mommy, but we didn't see the Old Man."

"That's on a different hiking trail, Danny. Besides, we stopped and saw the Old Man of the Mountain from a distance at that scenic overlay on the way here, remember?"

"That's not the same," Danny pouted. "You promised."

Dean saw the mother glance at her watch, then crouch down next to her younger son. "Okay, we can walk the trail to Profile Lake, at the base of the Old Man's mountain. But, Danny, it's still not going to be a close-up view. We'll be twelve hundred feet below the Old Man, looking up. And if it clouds over, we won't be able to see anything. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Mommy. But I still wanna see it."

"Okay." The woman stood up and handed her older son her car keys. "Ethan, go get some more water bottles from the car." Ethan scampered off toward the center of the parking lot, returning shortly, arms laden with water bottles. She slipped them into her large carryall. "Let's go, boys."

Dean watched them walk towards the north end of the parking lot. Traveling around as much as the Winchesters had, he'd seen the Old Man of the Mountain as a distant blur from the Impala a few times, over the years. He knew the Old Man's profile was on the New Hampshire state quarter, recalling one motel stay when he'd been bored and broke, carefully counting and examining his money, down to the last penny. He still had plenty of free time; it was barely past eleven. Dean shrugged and followed the little family towards the new trail and the state's well-known landmark.

Fortunately the clouds held off and forty-five minutes later, Dean stood next to Profile Lake, reading the marker about its nickname—the Old Man's Washbowl. Gazing up at the stern and distant Old Man's face, which the marker pointed out was ruggedly formed by five different layers of granite situated just underneath the top of Cannon Mountain, Dean was reminded of nothing so much as a bearded lumberjack. He almost started humming _I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay_, but Danny's voice brought him back to the present.

"Wow." The little boy gazed at the huge face, awestruck. "Who put a face on the mountain, Mommy?"

"I think Daniel Webster said it best, Danny. 'Up in the Mountains of New Hampshire, God Almighty has hung out a sign to show that there He makes men.'"

Ethan commented softly. "Kinda looks like Daddy from those old photos."

The young mother placed her hand lightly on the older boy's shoulder. "Yes, it does, Ethan," she agreed.

Dean reexamined the Old Man's features and easily saw a resemblance to his own dad in the rough, uncompromising visage.

He glanced down at the marker and re-read the information on the naturally-occurring face—forty feet tall by twenty-five feet wide—on the mountain. It was formed thousands of years ago, when the last ice caps receded from North America, leaving many new mountains, rivers and lakes behind. Known by the Native Americans for centuries, The Old Man of the Mountain was officially discovered in 1805. Although it was a true natural wonder, since the 1910's, the Old Man's grip on the mountain's edge had been aided by epoxy and a system of turnbuckles, a device used in quarries to secure rocks

_A lot of facts that Sammy would take delight in knowing._ Dean quickly banished the thought and returned his gaze to the Old Man jutting out from the mountain in seemingly unsupported natural glory. Rudely interrupted by his stomach rumbling, he quit playing tourist and made his way back to the beginning of the trail and the visitor's parking lot.

Dean settled into the Impala, got back on the highway and drove into Franconia proper, eyes peeled for a bar to grab lunch and, with luck, to hustle some pool. Spotting a likely-looking tavern, he parked and walked inside.

A pleasing mish-mash of the aromas of barbeque, chicken and pizza met Dean as he entered the establishment.

"Be right with you, sir." A perky young brunette greeted him from where she was bussing the booth closest to the door. She smiled, finished clearing the table, and stepped over to Dean, standing by the "Please Wait to be Seated" sign. "Table or a booth?" she asked.

"Booth, please." Dean followed the waitress as she stepped back to the booth she'd just finished cleaning. She motioned for him to sit down, and Dean selected the side of the booth facing the door. He noticed a newspaper tucked under the girl's arm. "Is that the local paper?"

"Yes. D'you wanna read it?"

Dean smiled. "That'd be awesome, thanks." The waitress left the newspaper on his table, and Dean ordered a draft beer and a medium pizza with everything, figuring he'd have plenty of time to peruse the paper in the twenty or so minutes it would take for the pizza to bake. He opened the folded-over paper and started reading the _Franconia Sentinel's _front-page news. The local lead was a story about a missing hiker, last seen six days ago. Nothing about the neighboring town of Lincoln at all. _No news is good news,_ Dean thought.

Next, he thoroughly scoped out his surroundings, noting the bar's layout. The back room's pool tables were currently deserted; he'd have to stop by later this evening, when the after work crowd drifted in for some fun and games. He needed to find a motel room after lunch. Early May in New Hampshire was too cold to comfortably crash in the Impala overnight.

Pondering his motel options, Dean was vaguely aware that two men strolled past him and sat in the booth behind his. His peripheral vision noted they wore matching jackets and dark pants, some sort of uniform. Dean easily overheard the conversation from the next booth over.

"Shame about that missing hiker. If he was anywhere near the trail, we should'a found him by now."

"Yeah, Ed," rumbled the second man. "I heard Millie say it could be a fraternity prank or something and the kid's not really missing at all."

Dean realized that the men were talking about the missing hiker he'd just read about in the paper. He casually stretched his arm across the top of the booth and glanced over his shoulder, noting that the men both wore sheriff's deputy badges. Terrific. He faced forwards, skimming the newspaper as he continued to eavesdrop.

"Nah, I'm not buying that, Noah," Ed said. "I talked to my nephew, Wilson. You remember Wilson, don't ya? He graduated from State last year and he knew the Keppler boy slightly. Local boy from Madbury and a seasoned hiker. Not the type to wander off on his own. Kid's hiking buddies said the same thing, when they reported him missing.

"Wilson also pointed out to me that it's the wrong season for fraternity hijinks. The frats rush during the fall, not the springtime."

"Didn't Keppler's pals say they'd just planned an overnight hike, to clear their heads before finals?" The first voice—Dean identified it as Noah's—asked.

"The mountains can be pretty unforgiving," Ed said gravely. "We can't forget that five experienced mountain climbers lost their lives in the White Mountains back in '99."

"Different circumstances there, Ed. That was winter, and the top of Bald Mountain. This Keppler kid wasn't mountain climbing, just hikin' with his buddies."

"So where is he, now?"

"I dunno. It's been two-three years since a black bear's been sighted near any of the trails, but—"

"The mountains can be unforgiving." Ed reiterated, closing the subject. "Hi Katie," he said as the brunette waitress joined them. "What d'you recommend for lunch today?"

Dean finished reading the paper and stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, coming in contact with the brochures from his recent visit to the state park. He skimmed the first information pamphlet idly then straightened in the booth as he came across the phrase "old-growth forest". Huh. Somehow, even after viewing the mix of young and mature sugar maple, beech, birch and spruce trees from parts of Franconia Notch's trails, he'd failed to grasp the fact that he was looking at old-growth forest. Off the top of his head, he could name ten different supernaturals that favored old-growth forests. _Maybe Keppler met up with something far more dangerous than a black bear._

Katie appeared, placing a steaming pizza on a large stoneware trivet in front of Dean, the handle pointed inwards. "Be careful, it's hot," she cautioned. "I'll be right back with your beer."

Dean nodded, gazing approvingly at the almost deep-dish thick pizza liberally supplied with chunks of sausage, mushroom, ham, pepperoni, peppers, olives and onions, on top of a cheese and tomato paste base. He manfully refrained from eating it until the waitress returned with his beer, giving the pizza time to fractionally cool. He lifted the first piece, carefully biting its tip, savoring the taste of all its toppings. Mmmmm. Pizza heaven.

Mulling over the missing hiker, Dean gobbled down pizza slices and beer, not stopping until both were gone. His waitress stopped by to clear the table. "Would you like some dessert, sir?"

"What d'you recommend?"

"The blueberry pie is very good—and we're known for our carrot cake all the way to Concord."

_Carrot cake—one of Sammy's favorite desserts, being made with vegetables and all._ "Ah, I'll take a piece of blueberry pie." Dean ordered quickly.

"Gotcha. D'you want some coffee with that?"

"Yes, please." Dean watched the waitress as she sauntered towards the bar, then put his mind back on business. Hearing the deputies' comments and reading the paper had cemented his instincts: he had a hunt, right here in Franconia Notch State Park. Even Dad respected Dean's instincts—well, more like he bemoaned Sam's lack of hunter's instincts "like ours", but— there was a hunt here. Dean felt sure of it. And even if he was wrong, he was an excellent tracker—as good as, if not better than, Franconia's search and rescue squads. If anyone could find Keppler, it was him.

The enticing smells of warm blueberry pie and steaming coffee brought Dean out of his reverie as the waitress set his dessert on the table. "Let me know if you need anything else, sir." Katie smiled and left the table.

Dean picked up a fork and dug into the warm, whipped cream-topped slice of pie. He needed to research the area's history, and get more information on exactly how and where Keppler had disappeared. _Oh, great. Gonna spend the afternoon researching. Sammy'd get a kick out of this—me, spending his birthday trapped in a library._

*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*

5


	4. Chapter 4

Loose Ends Part 4 Going Solo

by Swellison

Dean paused, taking a moment to check out his surroundings. He'd been steadily climbing up the Lake View trail, headed towards the top of Cannon Mountain. His hours of research in the library had yielded few useful facts, but he did have a clear picture of what areas had been searched for the missing hiker. The search had focused on the middle Cannon Mountain, and all the likely possibilities had been checked out. Apparently, the searchers' reasoning was that an experienced hiker wouldn't get lost enough to stray over to another mountain. Time for some out-of-the-box thinking, and since Dean's thought processes involved what-would-a-zombie-do type of thinking, he figured he lived in out of the box-land.

A last-minute supply run had altered his original plans, so he was still hiking the trail, less than a quarter mile from the top of Cannon Mountain, close to midnight. He was used to working late hours, since supernaturals mostly prowled at night. It didn't matter if they were haunting forests, mountains or abandoned factories; the spooks invariably came out at night.

Following the next switchback, he saw a dead log lying on the ground just off the trail. That would be a great place to rest while he rummaged around for his second sweater and gobbled down an energy bar. The stiff, shifting wind caused him to veto any thought he might've had about a fire. Dean stepped over to the fallen log and sat on it. He'd been carrying his duffle like a backpack, using the handles as shoulder straps, and he eased it off as he sat down on the handy log. Digging out some granola bars, he unwrapped and bit into one and tried to relax, just for the moment.

He was quietly crunching on his second granola bar when he felt the hairs on his neck stand upright. Dean swallowed the piece of snack bar, and nonchalantly scanned his surroundings. Nothing. Still, it wasn't nothing, he felt **something**. His hunter's instincts fully engaged, Dean casually slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his cell. He gently flipped it open and touched speed dial number two, Dad. His eyes strayed on the almost-never used name by speed dial number one, Sammy. _Hey, I can always call Sammy, wish him a happy birthday for the remaining fifteen minutes of it. Right. And that's not needy and chick-flicky at all. _

Dean had taken a break from his research at the library to locate and send an appropriate e-card to Sam. One click and a photo of a sleek, black muscle car transformed into an animated cartoon. The black car skidded through a figure 8, then stopped screen-center with "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAMMY" emblazoned on the driver's door. Then the car peeled away, with the exhaust spelling out "Eat My Dust!"

He was snapped out of his reverie when his cell phone suddenly emitted a no signal warning. Terrific.

Okay, it seemed he was on his own. _Isn't that what I wanted, to be a true solo hunter?_ Well, maybe not, but as Sammy would say, "It's a rhetorical question, dude." He closed his cell and slipped it back into his pocket, pondering his next move. Eliminate the possibilities, Dad's authoritative voice rang through his head. Dean scrounged in the duffel bag, withdrawing his jury-rigged walkman and turned on the EMF reader.

He held the device in front of him, still seated on the log, and began sweeping the area in an arc with a minimal amount of arm movement. He reached almost the limits of his sweeping range when the lights suddenly flashed on, showing three red lights.

Suspicions confirmed.

Dean eased into hunting mode, confident and relaxed now that he knew he was dealing with a supernatural. The trail was surrounded by thin, young trees, no real clearing in sight. He scanned the area, but found no place to hide. The trees were all very similar, and none of them were thick enough to lurk behind, or strong enough to support his weight, if he needed to climb one of them suddenly.

His best guess was what he was tracking, or at least trying to track, was an angry spirit, possibly of a long-lost hiker. As he moved, the trees rustled near their tops. Dean looked up, squinting into the bright moonlight. He looked away quickly, not wanting to lose his night vision. It wasn't long before he was out of the trees, and moving on a path that lead to the summit of the mountain. Something was stalking him, at times behind him, sometimes out in front. He slipped his shotgun out of his duffel and cradled it familiarly in the crook of his arm. The summit was only steps away.

The few scraggly trees dotting the path crackled in the the creature was standing in the middle of the moonlit path not twenty feet in front of was tall—at least two feet taller than Sammy!—and solidly built, wearing full-legged breechcloth pants and a thick animal-skinned overshirt of some sort. "Sonovabitch," Dean hissed. "Bigfoot's real!"

The thing's eyes were dark, its face seemingly carved into a foreboding line. Dean instinctively brought up the shotgun and fired, the rock salt bullets striking the fugly in the shoulder. Dean hoped his ammo would make the thing dissolve into smoke. Instead, it barely flinched, but it did growl and started charging towards him. Dean turned to run, but saw that he had nowhere to go on the flat mountain top, except possibly back into the woods below. Shit, the damned thing was in front of him again. Dean grabbed his knife out of the belt sheath he wore and bellowed, racing toward the creature. Maybe he could dodge around it, and then lose it as he wound his way in and out of the thin trees. Not a great plan, but it would do in a pinch. Dean pivoted, trying to dodge around the creature, but the fugly had super-fast reflexes, and he found himself face to face with the creature's upper chest, and felt the rush of air as the thing's arms tried to reach out and grab him.

"Oh hell no!" Dean growled and lunged hard with the knife in his right hand. Ideally, he wanted to hit the thing's heart, but its immense size had him striking it on the lower right side instead. Still, he stabbed forcefully, and the giant roared in pain, its breath hitting Dean full strength, causing him to gag at the strong smell of rotting meat contained in it. "Dude," he gasped. "Haven't you heard of Listerine?"

The giant roared again and pushed Dean away. The strength of the shove sent him rolling backwards, tumbling out of control. He only knew that he went over the edge of the mountain when his legs met empty space instead of rock-hard ground. Frantic, he scrabbled at the cliffside, searching for a handgrip on the granite rock face.

He had just wedged his hand into a crevice when a lightning bolt tore through the sky, turning it daylight white for a few seconds, then the rain dropped down in sheets. Dean struggled to hang on to the mountainside, and forced himself to crawl slowly back towards the top. Gasping, he inched upward and with one last push was back on the mountain's top, instead of clinging perilously to its side.

Dean forced himself to raise his head, certain that he'd only meet the fugly's glaring face again. He blinked trying to see through the curls of low clouds that swirled around him. He thought he saw two giant forms squared off against each other maybe twenty feet away from the cliff. _Two?_ He knew he'd only been tracking a single creature. _Where'd the second one come from?_ Did it matter? Fugly #2 seemed to be doing his work for him, determinedly rushing towards the first creature. The mountain itself seemed to roar as the two behemoths collided. A chilling, inhuman scream erupted —Dean was certain it came from the first fugly—then ended abruptly as the second creature snapped Fugly #1's neck. The victorious creature let the other body fall to the ground as the mountain shook with the force of an extremely loud clap of thunder. The rainclouds unexpectedly dissipated andthe moon shone brightly once again. Dean was surrounded by a surprising stillness.

Breathing heavily, he staggered to his feet. Ignoring his own pains, Dean drew his knife and warily strode over to the now-empty spot where the giants had been fighting. He stooped down and cast an eye over the mostly rocky surface. He made out a faint trail, one or two flattened spots where the grass dared to try to grow between rock slabs. After only twenty feet, this barely there trail vanished. Dean cast around the top of the mountain, circling back to stare intently at the area where the trail dipped into the woods again, but he saw nothing conclusive. The creatures were inexplicably gone.

Dean finally faced the facts. It was past midnight, and the storm, which had died down, was showing signs of renewed vigor. Whatever had been on the mountain top wasn't there anymore. Likewise, he found no evidence of the missing hiker. He wasn't going to earn the good opinion of any college kid tonight. Reluctantly, he abandoned the mountain top, slowly making his way back down the trail.

*SPN*SPN*SPN*SP*SPN*SPN*SPN*

Sam didn't take his eyes off Dean the entire time he relayed his account of his solo hunt in New Hampshire. A couple of times he caught an odd look on Dean's face, but he couldn't for the life of him interpret it. He was sure that he was missing something in Dean's recitation, but he knew better than to ask what.

"So," he cleared his throat. "You never really completed the hunt? You didn't go back the next night, or—? I mean, it's not like you to walk away from anything, leave it unfinished."

"When I got back to the Impala, I was soaked. I'd also missed a message from Dad, while slippin' and sliding down the trail. He wanted me to meet him in Pennsylvania STAT, so I booked. I stopped at a diner for breakfast and caught an announcement on the TV news. New Hampshire's ancient and well-known landmark, The Old Man of the Mountain, had collapsed during the storm. It was found in a heap of rubble at the bottom of Cannon Mountain.

"It kinda clicked, after I heard that. I think the spirit of the Old Man was somehow freed that night, and that's what took care of the fugly. Hell, maybe one of the fuglies **was** the spirit of the old man and he'd vanquished his foe. Who knows." Dean shrugged.

"Anyway, I wasn't going anywhere near Cannon Mountain after that, I headed for Pennsylvania."

Sam thoughtfully considered Dean's words. "And now you think something like your fugly's somehow free, two years later and is snatching hikers again?"

"Yes, no. Maybe. Who knows? Whatever's going on, we need to investigate it, though."

"Hmmmm, maybe. Hey, you think it's a wendigo?"

"In New Hampshire?" Dean snorted.

"Yeah, wendigos are only found in Minnesota and Michigan. That doesn't mean I didn't find you hanging like a side of beef in that lair in Black Ridge, Colorado." Inwardly, Sam flinched. That was not a fond memory for him, although he had at least **found** Dean.

Sam watched as Dean's right hand reflexively reached for his wounded left bicep, then he dropped it back on the table, fiddling with the newspaper. "Too coincidental." Dean said with a shake of his head.

Sam snorted. "Coincidental how? Your hunt was two and a half years ago, dude."

"That other hiker's only been missing a few days. Doesn't matter, though, it wasn't a wendigo."

Sam glared at Dean, daring him to expand on his words.

"I fought with that fugly." Dean raised his hand, ticking off the points on his fingers. "Too tall. Too slow. Not a wendigo—definitely a meat-eater, though. I smelled its breath."

"All right, but it's not going to be like last time."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, look outside. It's winter and there's probably several feet of snow on the ground, especially in those mountains."

"So?"

"So, we need to be prepared. What sort of snow gear have you got in the trunk?"

"Snow gear? Y'mean like chains for my baby's tires?"

"That's probably not a bad idea, but I meant down coats, real winter boots, ear muffs, lined gloves, the works."

"That's for wimps!" Dean protested.

"No, it's for people who don't want to freeze to death."

"You are such a wuss."

"Okay. Ignoring our winter gear situation, we still don't know what we're up against," Sam said. "Look, why don't you go find a laundromat? I'll stay here and do some surfing, figure out what sort of fuglies could be running amuck in New Hampshire."

"Why do I always end up doing the laundry?" Dean griped as he rose from the table.

Sam smiled but didn't answer. It was a rhetorical question. He watched as Dean grabbed the duffel full of dirty clothes, walked over to the door, put on his leather jacket and left the room.

*SPN*SPN*SPN*SP*SPN*SPN*SPN*

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

Loose Ends Part 5 Hunting Duo

By Swellison

Sam lost no time in retrieving the laptop. He put it on the table and turned the power on while he made himself some coffee. Then he settled in front of the screen. He searched for any further information about the missing hiker, checking for updates. Then he googled information on New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountain and found numerous articles. "The Old Man of the Mountain was found collapsed in a pile of rubble on the morning of May 3, 2003." Sam stared at the date, instantly comprehending what it meant and why Dean had such an odd look on his face from time to time.May 2nd. Dean had gone hunting—on his own—on Sam's birthday, abandoned by Dad, determinedly searching out a missing hiker. A missing college boy hiker. Dean had carefully kept the date vague. "Early May," Sam'd heard him say quite clearly at the start of his recital.

For a moment, Sam thought back to what he'd been doing on that May second. Jess, Zach, Becca, and a few of his other friends had staked out the biggest table at the campus' most popular pizza joint, and they'd celebrated with piled high pizza and beer, in true college fashion. Then, Jess had told him to close his eyes and a big chocolate cake with "Happy Birthday Sam" in green letters had magically appeared. They'd sung him "Happy Birthday" and urged him to make a wish as he blew out the candles. The guys had assumed he'd wished for a hot night with Jessica. But he hadn't. He'd wished for Dean to be there, talking, laughing and enjoying the party. Pizza, beer and pretty women—that kind of bash was right up his brother's alley.

Sam stared at the monitor, lost in his thoughts. Why had Dad cut Dean loose on that day? Surely he knew as well as Sam did that leaving Dean at loose ends on Sam's birthday was a super-thoughtless thing to do. _But isn't that just the way Dad is? Unless it concerns the thing that killed Mom, he could care less. _

Sam knew that Dean had toughened up in the years they'd been separated, and his brother certainly would not tolerate any lame attempt to say something deep and meaningful two and a half years too late. So really all that Sam could do now was to hunt with Dean, be his back up— no, more than that, behis partner. He remembered Dean saying "You know we made a helluva team, back there" in Palo Alto, before everything went south in a flash of fire and smoke and screams . . .

Clearing his head of that fiery image, Sam skimmed Dean's bookmarks, searching for a site to start his information hunt. They needed to know not just what to expect from the weather in New Hampshire, but exactly what monster they were up against. Dean's description of the fugly was pretty sparse—but "giant" and "cannibal" at least provided a starting place. Sam dug into his research, absently pulling out a notepad to jot down any relevant information. He quickly became immersed in his work, barely noticing the clock tracking the changing hours at the bottom right corner of his monitor.

Dean trounced in from the cold, slamming the door behind him. He had the duffel in one hand and a plastic bag in the other one. "No fast food for supper tonight, dude. I got us some Chinese." He placed the food on the table and then unbuttoned his coat.

"Smells awesome, dude." Sam pushed the laptop aside and opened one of the square takeout boxes that Dean had extracted from the plastic bag. He took an appreciative sniff. "Kung Pao chicken, mmmmm."

"Yeah, and we've got Moo Shu pork, Mongolian beef, and sweet and sour chicken, too. And some fried rice."

"Chopsticks?"

"Of course," Dean handed Sam a paper-wrapped pair of chopsticks as he sat down on the opposite side of the table. He carefully removed the last item from the bag, pushing the large cup over to Sam. "Here. I even got you some tea, wimp."

"Thanks. That'll hit the spot."

Sam watched as Dean shook his head and mumbled "wuss" under his breath.

They enthusiastically started demolishing the array of Chinese treats in front of them.

"So, how's the research going?" Dean asked as he separated his stuck together at the top chopsticks.

"Okay, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I think what we're up against is a tsonoqwa."

"A song-who?"

"Tsonoqwa. It's an Indian creature, a giant cannibal—"

"Song-whatzits are part of Pacific Coast Indian lore. We're three thousand miles too far east for that."

"Maybe a family of them migrated to New Hampshire." Sam glanced at his notepad and read: "Tsonoqwa, a member of the Geekumhl family of cannibal giants who live in mountains and woods. The female tsonoqwa is the most frequent version of these forest-dwelling giants—"

"Hey, I was grappling with that thing, up close and personal. Trust me, it **wasn't** a female."

"—she targets children, luring them with sweets, food and copper treasures. The much rarer male tsonoqwa is known as being fierce and strong with a formidable alertness." Sam finished. "Sound familiar?"

"Yeah."

"Y'know, it could be related to the wendigo—say, a distant cousin or something?"

"They're both strong and they're both corporeal." Dean seemed to be coming around to Sam's way of thinking. "Which means we know how to kill it . . .Fl—"

"Flare gun!" Sam said at the same time as Dean. Sam knew that Dean had added a pair of flare guns to his bag of weapons after their wendigo encounter. He flashed to finding the rag sticking out of a bottle neck—Dean's improvised Molotov cocktail—fallen uselessly to the ground, after the wendigo had kidnapped Dean and Hailey.

"All right," he said, "In addition to flare guns, there're a few more items we're gonna need to hunt this thing."

BREAK

Sam had scouted several New Hampshire hiking, skiing and mountain climbing websites to figure out the best trail up Cannon Mountain. They chose a different route than the Lake View trail that Dean had used two years ago, opting for the less arduous and more rambling approach from the backside of Cannon Mountain. Jabbing into the snow-laden trail with his ski pole, Sam carefully planted his ski sideways to the slope, ski-walking up the wide, well-marked trail. They had been trudging up the mountain for over half an hour. He looked back towards Dean, who stuck both his poles in the snow.

"That's it!" Dean declared, bending over to release the toe clamps on his second-hand but serviceable cross-country skis. "I'm walking. It's faster—and easier—than skiing up this mountain."

"Now who's the wuss?" Sam muttered under his breath. Catching Dean's glare—even through the oversized, mirrored ski goggles Dean wore—he hastily repeated, louder. "Not a bad idea." He followed Dean's lead and quickly removed his skis.

"We should just leave the skis here, pick them up on the way down," Dean suggested.

"I'm holding onto mine. It'll be difficult to find this spot again at night, on the way down, especially if it snows more. Which seems likely, since we're in New Hampshire, in the White Mountains, in December."

"College boy thinks he's so smart," Dean retorted, but nevertheless he collected his skis and poles, balancing them over one shoulder, on top of the strap that held the weapons bag like a backpack. "Let's go, we're wastin' daylight."

They continued their upward climb, making decent progress as the sun advanced closer to the horizon. Sam hoped that they would reach the mountain's summit before twilight, so they could get their bearings before darkness fell. The scant information available about tsonoqwas didn't say how to lure one out into the open, so they'd be, as Sam was beginning to suspect Dean did a lot on his solo hunts, winging it. Used to hearing Dean's boots crunching on the snow behind him, Sam suddenly realized that it was quiet behind him. He stopped, turning around to see Dean just standing there, staring at something off the trail.

"What're you looking at?"

"That look like a cave to you?" Dean pointed towards two enormous slabs of snow covered rocks, reddish granite peaks standing out against the snow. One slab leaned markedly against the other, creating a dark, giant-sized gap between them.

Sam glanced at the indicated rock slabs. He knew that the retreating glaciers from the last ice age had left all sorts of geologic oddities in their wake, but there was something about those slabs that seemed almost man-made. _Fugly-made?_ "What's the EMF say?"

Dean's gloved hand delved into the deep pocket of his reluctantly purchased down jacket, pulling out his EMF meter. He aimed it at the rock slabs. Sam wasn't surprised to see the left-most light flashing, several yards removed from the entrance. Residuals.

Dean left the trail, heading for the cave, meter held out in front of him. Sam immediately fell in behind. They halted a few feet from the opening, the EMF emitted a high-pitched whine, four lights immediately flashing. "Yahtzee."

"So we're going in?" Sam asked, rhetorically.

"Don't see any other way to explore it." Dean set his skis and poles down, then slipped the weapons bag off his back. He unbuttoned it, reached inside and grabbed their flare gun. He shoved it towards Sam. "Here. I prefer the old-fashioned way."

Sam watched as Dean grabbed the small can of gasoline that they always had on hand for salting and burning spirits' bones. Dean then pulled out a clean white rag, wrapped around an empty beer bottle. ."Keep watch," he said, carefully pouring some gasoline into the bottle, then twisting one end of the rag into a point and pushing it into the bottle until the tip met the gasoline at the bottom. Then Dean extracted two headlamps from the weapons bag. Sam took the proffered headband and placed it with its small but powerful attached flashlight on his head, pushing it down firmly over his black balaclava.

Dean, now sporting his own headlamp, flicked it on and gestured towards the cave entrance. "Ladies first."

Sam snorted, but stepped alertly through the cave entrance, his right hand turning onhis headlamp as he passed through the tall carved out entrance into the granite cave.

He heard Dean's footsteps as he cautiously walked deeper into the cave. The opening remained a thin corridor-like path for several feet before it opened up into a larger chamber. Sam glanced around, letting the headlamp's light illuminate the cave's walls. The far corner held a clutter of dried twigs and branches, with a couple animal skins lying on top of it. Sam tensed, eyeing the makeshift bed uneasily.

There was no evidence of current activity in the chamber, and a path lead away from it, further into the cave. When his flashlight beam momentarily crossed Dean's, he gave his brother a meaningful look toward the new path.

Dean managed to slip ahead of him, taking point as they walked warily deeper into the cavern.

Sam's view narrowed down to the weapons bag on Dean's back, and the cave walls at their sides, the headlamp casting elongated shadows on the walls as they journeyed deeper into the cave. Suddenly, Dean halted.

Looking past Dean's shoulder, Sam saw that the path branched into two separate tunnels, both looked to be about the same size.

"So, we split up?" Sam prodded.

Dean turned to face him. "No."

"It'll take less time to search the tunnels if we do."

"Since when are you pressed for time?" Dean challenged. "C'mon." Dean grabbed hold of Sam's ski jacket, "Let's go."

"Deee-aan," Sam wouldn't call it whining, but he knew Dean might see things differently—or hear things differently. "You don't want to split up, fine. We won't. That doesn't mean y'need to grab onto me like some kid."

"Sure I do." Dean teased. "You're still young enough to fall under the spell of Mrs. Tsonqoqwa."

"I'm twenty-three!" Sam protested, jerking out of Dean's grasp. Dammit, he sounded like a kid, practically stamping his feet.

"Well, you don't look it. I can see where a female song-wannabe would get the wrong idea, so I'm keeping close watch."

"What else is new?" Sam mumbled, falling into step behind Dean as they walked down the left tunnel. About ten feet later, the tunnel ended in another, slightly smaller chamber. Their headlamps caught blobs of white on the floor, and Sam stiffened, taking in the clump of skulls scattered underfoot.

He heard Dean curse and glanced upwards, his headlamp showing the dangling form of a man, hanging from a crudely fashioned hook in the middle of the cave.

"This isn't familiar at all," Dean grunted.

Sam appreciated Dean's grumbling, knowing his brother was giving him time to wrap his head around the situation, and get past the feeling of déjà-vu.

A roar from the arched opening behind them had Sam scrambling for the flare gun in his pocket, his gloves hampering his efforts.

"Sam!" Dean warned as the enormous shape of the pissed-off tsonoqwa filled the entrance to the tunnel, blocking their exit.

The beast rushed towards Sam, and though it wasn't wendigo-fast, it reached Sam before he could fire the flare gun. He took a hasty step backwards and tripped over a skull, crashing to the ground.

Dean roared and launched himself at the fugly, barreling into the giant before it could hurt Sam.

Yanking off his glove, Sam retrieved the flare gun from his jacket pocket, jerking to a sitting position as he aimed the gun. Unfortunately, Dean was between the tsonoqwa and Sam, pounding on the creature in an effort to distract it. Sam shifted his aim higher—_Giant, duh_!—"Dean! Incoming!" he yelled, firing the flare gun. Dean moved lightning quick and the flare struck the tsonoqwa close to its collar bone and its long fur burst into flames.

The creature screeched, one hand reaching for its on-fire upper body.

Sam pushed himself to his feet as Dean stepped back from the burning fugly. Heyanked Dean close as it collapsed. The giant shrieked as the flames grew, continuing to consume its body from the outside in. They watched as the tsonoqwa's flesh first shriveled, then turned into a heap of ashes.

Sam let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"The bigger they come," Dean joked, staring at the pile of ashes in the middle of the chamber.

"Hah, hah." Sam glanced at the other very much dead body hanging in the room. "D'you think that's the latest missing hiker?"

"Who else?" Dean pointed at the skulls and assorted other bones on the floor and sighed. "Keppler's probably here, too, somewhere."

"We should tell the authorities. They deserve a proper burial."

Dean shook his head. "Too risky. The tsonoqwa's dead and gone, and this setup is way too sophisticated to blame the deaths on a black bear. With no suspect, the cops'll zero in on who found the body, real fast."

"We'd do it anonymously."

Dean scoffed. "How anonymous can we be, in a small town like this? We bought a bunch of gear here, and my baby's not exactly invisible. No, the best we can do is bury the bodies."

"Bury the bodies? Dude, look around. There's a couple 'a feet of snow between us and the ground. And even if we dug through the snow—" Sam stomped on the ground, making his point –"there's rock, not dirt, underfoot. We're standing on top of an exfoliating granite dome."

"So, what do you suggest, college boy?"

Sam reined in his temper. "We could build a funeral pyre, give them a hunter's send-off."

"Fire won't burn hot enough to take care of the bones."

Sam winced. So what did that leave?

"Jerry Panowski." Dean said unexpectedly. "Sammy, we can call Jerry, tell him about the location of the bodies. Jerry works for an airline, and he does volunteer search and rescue work with a helicopter team. He's got connections everywhere. He'll see that the authorities get notified—once we're outta here."

"Maybe he's heard from Dad, too." Sam knew Dean heard the excitement in his voice.

"We'll ask him, but don't get your hopes up, okay, Sammy? If Dad's gone off the grid, it's gonna take awhile—who knows how long—to find him." Dean reached over to pat Sam's shoulder. "Let's blow this pop stand."

They quickly left the food chamber, backtracking rapidly. When they reached the first, larger chamber, Dean halted. "You wanna spend the night here or ski down the mountain?"

Sam shot him an unbelieving look.

"Race ya to the bottom, Sammy!" Dean challenged. "Loser buys tomorrow's breakfast."

Sam ran towards the cave's entrance. "You're on. And it's Sam, not Sammy!"

A/N I hope you enjoyed this early hunting trip;-) I was surfing the net, looking for story possibilities when I remembered hearing about the collapse of the Old Man of the Mountain. When I read the details and heard the date of the collapse (the night of May 2-3, 2003), I said "Yahtzee! Sammy's birthday, I can do something with this!" and the result is another one of my blended history hunts.


End file.
